Agnes Owens by Agnes Owens Page B

quick!’ I pleaded.
    This statement struck a false note with my mother. She pulled my head up by the hair and smelled my breath.
    â€˜He’s bloody well drunk. ’Phone the doctor, Aggie, an’ I’ll get him aff the pavement.’
    I wasn’t well for a fortnight. During that time my mother kept up a tirade of abuse between plates of tinned tomato soup. I never knew what happened to McCluskie but for the time being I had had enough of booze. Gradually I came out of my misery and returned to work. I lost touch with him and my mother had altered her opinion.
    â€˜I never want tae see that fella near this hoose again,’ was her command.
    In those days she did have some jurisdiction over me, but it was a lonely business going to the pictures on your own or watching the telly with mother. I longed for a bit of excitement. Once or twice I went to the washhouse on a Friday hoping McCluskie would show up even without the lemonade bottle. Once in desperation Iwent straight from the site to the distillery in the chance I would bump into him. Sure enough I got there in time to see him sauntering along the road with another fella. Happiness surged through me at the sight of his moon face. Great, I thought, I was going to live again. I couldn’t reach him quick enough.
    â€˜How’s it gaun John?’ I said.
    The laughter faded from his face. ‘Tolerable son, tolerable,’ he said coolly. He walked on without as much as a slowdown. My face flushed as if the skin had been stripped off. I had to keep going. I walked straight on, as if I was wound up, right through the distillery gate.
    â€˜Where do you think you’re goin’? asked the gateman.
    â€˜Jist waitin’ for somebody,’ I mumbled.
    â€˜Well wait back doon the road.’
    I hung around for a minute outside the distillery for appearance’s sake and to keep me from catching up with McCluskie, then slowly I returned home.
    I went through a bad period at that time. I stayed in at nights. Then I would pace up and down staring out of the window wondering if I could risk going out for a walk without folk taking a note of my loneliness. I could have become a recluse without any bother. Finally, one Friday I was adventurous enough to buy a half-bottle of cheap wine from the licensed grocer. I drank it in the seclusion of my bedroom. Courage hardened in my nerve cells enough to make me move outwards. I moved along to the first pub I came to, which was the Paxton Arms. Everybody was standing about in casual attitudes talking and laughing, but I was stiff with embarrassment. I knew the lonely sign was written all over me. Desperately I ordered a pint of beer and found it gassy and hard to swallow. A grizzled-looking guy came over and stood beside me. His eyes were wise and searching. The heat rose within me.
    â€˜Does yer mither know ye’re oot?’ he asked. I stood rigid and scarlet.
    â€˜Relax son. I’m no’ gaun tae report ye for bein’ under age if the barman canny see that himsel.’
    â€˜I’m auld enough.’
    â€˜Sure – auld enough tae drink shandy.’
    â€˜Look mister,’ I said, ‘shut yer face or I’ll shut it for ye!’
    He laughed. ‘Ach, ye widny hit an auld man. Here I’ll buy ye a decent drink.’
    He ordered two whiskies and placed one before me, saying solemnly, ‘My name is Patrick Grant McDonald, but you can call me Paddy.’
    From then my social life began.
    I saw McCluskie once or twice in the Paxton after that, but I looked through him. He didn’t bother me. He looked through me. I told Paddy McDonald that McCluskie was in the habit of stealing money from his mother. After that I never saw him in the Paxton again. Maybe Paddy had influence. Anyway I became one of the regulars and forgot about McCluskie. Then last year he hit the headlines. Apparently he was running round with some crazy gang out of the district and he was